Diana’s phone buzzed in her apron pocket at 10:47 p.m. She was mid-pour—gin fizz for some guy in a suit who kept staring at her cleavage—when she glanced down.
Storage room. Ten minutes.
No name. Didn’t need one.
Her stomach flipped. Heat rushed between her legs so fast she almost spilled the drink. She finished the order, wiped her hands on a rag, and checked the clock. Manager was in the office doing paperwork. Perfect.
She slipped behind the bar at 10:56, heart hammering loud enough she swore the bass from the speakers couldn’t cover it. Down the narrow hallway past the bathrooms, past the employee break room. The storage door was plain metal, dented from years of kegs being rolled through. She pushed it open.
They were already inside.
Rafe leaned against a pallet of vodka cases
